


A Catalogue of Touches

by Xanisis



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, i just wanted to get this up before this next episode, i thought it'd be cool to show the progression of their relationship through physicality, so this happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 10:47:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3206426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xanisis/pseuds/Xanisis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His arms wrap around her and it feels like coming home.</p>
<p>(This is not the home she had imagined, but it’s home all the same.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Catalogue of Touches

His hand is on her wrist.

“Let go of me, Bellamy,” she says around clenched teeth.

“Not yet,” he says. “I need to talk to you.”

“Maybe I don’t want to talk to you,” she replies.

“Too bad,” he says, smiles.

In a different light, he could be handsome.

He is still holding her wrist. She shrugs it off, exits the tent.

He follows.

(But then again, she knew he would.)

 

.

 

“Fuck you,” she says.

It feels good to say something she’s not supposed to, something that _he_ wouldn’t expect her to say.

Fuck you.

Fuck you.

Fuck you.

“And what have I done this time, princess?” he asks, eyebrows raised, arrogance emanating.

She imagines her hand hitting his face, the impact shattering his smirk, breaking it into miniscule pieces. She imagines bruises spreading like ink splatters and bones crumpling like balled up paper. She imagines destruction.

(He brings out the worst in her, she finds.)

He intercepts the swing of her arm, shakes his head as if chastising a child.

“Feisty,” he says, and she hates him, she does. “But I really don’t have time for your antics today, princess. Somebody’s got to run the camp.”

He makes her feel wildly out of control.

She breathes deeply, a heavy in and out, follows after him, continues their dance.

 

.

 

He lays a hand on her shoulder. She flinches. The hand retracts.

She wants to tell him that it’s just nerves, the result of surgery and torture and talking to her mother. She doesn’t.

“You should get some sleep,” he says.

There is blood on his face. She doesn’t know whether it’s his or the grounder’s. She doesn’t know which one is worse, which one is better.

She feels so tired she could collapse, but she doesn’t want him to know that.

“I’m fine,” she says, even though she’s really not.

(She doesn’t think he is either.)

_We tortured a man today, Bellamy,_ she doesn’t say.

_I don’t know what I’m doing,_ she doesn’t say.

_I’m scared,_ she doesn’t say.

(But it’s all still true.)

 

.

 

There is a gun in her hand and his chest against her back and his smile imprinted on her brain.

(He is not the man she thought he was.)

 

.

 

They are covered by a blanket of black sky and lying on a  bed of hard dirt and the body of somone that could have been their friend is sprawled next to them.

He is a broken boy and she is a scared girl and they are holding hands.

This is not how she thought the story would end.

(This is not the ending.)

 

.

 

“They trust you,” she says, places her hand on his.

There is doubt in his eyes. _Whatever we want_ is a distant mantra.

“Should they?” he asks.

(She has an answer, but she is not ready to say it. It sound something like _I need you_.)

 

.

 

His arms wrap around her and it feels like coming home.

(This is not the home she had imagined, but it’s home all the same.)

 

.

 

They are walking side by side and their hands brush, palms accidentally pressed together, lifelines meshing.

(She ruminates on the cumulation of people’s lives, an endless array of crossroads and decisions to be made, and how she chose him.)

They say nothing, just keep walking, but the corners of her mouth turn up.

 

.

 

Clarke doesn’t cry at the memorial. She just stands and stares, watches the flames climb higher towards the sky, doesn’t turn to look at Bellamy as he comes to stand beside her and slips his hand into hers, just curls her fingers around his and pretends she’s somewhere else.

“How are you holding up?” he’ll ask her later.

She won’t even bother to reply. He knows her answer anyway. They all do.

 

.

 

She whispers his name in the dark. He doesn't answer, just looks at her, eyes bright in the blackness.

"Bellamy," she repeats, climbs into his bed like a child after a nightmare.

(They are not children.)

 

.

 

"I can't lose you too," she tells him and it sounds like I love you.

Later, his fingers tangle in her hair and it feels like an answer.

  
  
  



End file.
